The End
by Zothar
Summary: Five months is over.
1. Closing the Book

A chilled breeze floated through the tombstones and around the surrounding people, threatening rain as the clouds swirld overhead. Everything was quiet, and though the coffin had been buried over and hour ago, nobody had moved more than a few feet. Wilson had an ornate marker, with the hospital insignia carved under his epitath. The rest of the staff, some patients, and friends had watched him lowered into the ground.

The tears had dried, along with the silenced sobs. Outside of the graveyard, the world continued to spin, and eventually the moment had to end. One by one, friends, family members and patients made their way to the parking lot, until only two men remained. Forman stood before the fresh dirt, hands crossed behind his back, as a gentle rain began to drizzle around him. He almost didn't notice the umbrella opening above his head, or the person standing by his side.

"Thanks," he grinned, turning slightly towards the unshaven man beside him.

Gregory House removed his glasses and hood, though the bodysuite added to further the disguise stayed in place. "I was opening it for myself. You're just lucky to be standing here," he drawled, not bothering to look at the doctor. Both stood in comfortable silence as the rain whispered to the graves.

"I never quite believed you were dead."

House scoffed at the comment. "Of course you did. I heard your euligy. Wouldn't have been so nice if you actually thought I was alive."

"Na," replied Forman. "I just always had a feeling."

"That and I put my nametag under your damn uneven table. Which you never bothered to get fixed, did you?" There was a pause. "Thought so."

There was another lapse of silence before Forman spoke again. "How were his last months? Before the cancer started to get really bad?"

"Cancer is boring," House repeated after a while. "He was his regular, annoying, goodie-two-shoes self. Aside from trying one more three-way. Apparently he liked that more than he had admitted." Forman shook his head involuntarily, repressing the thought as soon as it had come up.

"And what about you?"

"Me? I'm peachy. Never better."

Forman turned to him. "Come on, you know I don't believe that."

"Now you believe me when I say everybody lies. Where was that when you worked for me?" House questioned, tilting his head as he continued to stare at the tombstone.

They lapsed into silence again. The rain continued to fall, a bit harder now, and thunder cracked overhead. The graveyard grew darker until flashes of lightning were all that illuminated the features of the two doctors.

"I have to get back to the office," Forman finally said, casting a glance at House. The older man's eyes never left the tombstone.

"Well, then you'd best get back to the office. I'd run if I were you, or else you'll really end soaked."

Forman rolled his eyes. "Can I at least have the umbrella?"

"What, and leave me standing here in the rain?"

The doctor waited a beat, then shook his head and turned to go. Metal slapped against his arm as he did, and he took the umbrella from House's outstretched hand. "Thanks."

"Just go," came the soft reply.

Forman paused for a beat. "Will I see you again?"

"No."

House listened as the doctor walked away, letting the rain drench his hair and unshaven face. Slowly, carefully, he put a hand on Wilson's tombstone.

"I am the better friend. I didn't leave you alone, you son of a bitch," he mumbled, eyes downcast.

Without another word, he turned and walked away.


	2. Not Alone

She wanted to die.

It was no longer a new feeling. The pain of Huntington's had stripped her body and mind of any and all control. She moved, thrashed, drooled and vomited while completely unable to even think clearly. The moments of lucidity were becoming fewer and farther between; from then on, it was going to be a long, painful road to death.

Wilson was dead. Chase headed up the diagnostic team, while Foreman continued his position. At least, that's how it was the last time she saw them. She knew all this, in some far back corner of her mind. She hadn't seen or spoken with any of them for several years. No contact with anybody that could be considered a friend since House's funeral.

House. Even his name was comforting to her, in a strange way. House had enjoyed studying her, poking and prodding her, attempting to learn of her personal life. He had been fascinated by her mystery, her puzzle. And though it was annoying, and though at times she hated him for it, overall she appreciated it. She knew that his interest, even if only for the puzzle, was the closest to caring anybody outside of Wilson and Cuddy had experienced from him.

To be honest, she had studied him too. When she realized what he was doing, she had tried to turn the tables. But for everything that he gave, she realized, there was twice as much he hid. His complete openness was as much a mask as her secrecy; people wouldn't ask about what they didn't think existed. And even though she knew it made her sound like House, she enjoyed the challenge of studying him as well.

There was more to him than most people had suspected. More, she theorized, than Cuddy suspected. If the woman had gained House's affection, and still broke up with him, then she must not have seen what Wilson could see. What Remy had begun to see; that he had a heart, had feelings, even if they were locked away. She knew, because House had promised her something nobody else could do, something that she held onto more than anything.

He had promised to kill her, when the time came. Only his time came first.

She had waited too long. She had wanted to live out her life as much as she could before allowing herself to die alone. But now it was too late; she didn't have control for long enough to ensure death. And if she were honest, death scared her. As much as she hated the disease, hated the suffering, the thought of dying alone frightened her even more. She had nobody to call, nobody who she would be willing to put through such an experience. Not Chase, not Taub, not Foreman; the only one who had offered, the only one she could trust to be okay, was House.

And he was dead.

She felt the pressure in the pit of her stomach, and unconsciously moaned as she squeezed her eyes shut. The lucidity was ending; it wouldn't be long before she was drooling like an infant once more. Her apartment was almost completely empty, aside from a few couches and her bed. There was no use for anything when you were dead anyhow.

The scraping sound caught her attention first. It continued for several moments, before someone muttered in an irritated voice and the window above the knob was broken. Remy opened her eyes as a gloved hand reached through and undid the lock. She wasn't afraid; the worst case scenario in that situation would be to die a month ahead of time. The door slowly swung open, and Thirteen's mouth dropped open.

His blue eyes scanned the room, looking over her momentarily before he shut the door behind him. He looked different; his hair and beard were grown out a bit longer, and he had gained a lot of weight. Leaning on his cane for support, he walked over to the side of the bed, pulling a chair to sit in and dropping his backpack by his feet.

"Y-you're ali-i…" her words stuttered in her throat. House looked down at her, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"No; I'm a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your sexual desires. You need to keep that in mind when I touch your breasts; it's what your brain wants."

Despite everything, Thirteen felt herself grin slightly. House's features softened a bit as he cracked a small smile as well.

"To answer all the questions I'm sure you're dying to ask… wait, bad metaphor," he muttered, putting his fingers to his chin and glancing up thoughtfully. Remy rolled her eyes as much as she could, but the smile stayed on her face. "Yes, I faked my death. Yes, Foreman knows, and no, nobody else does. Yes, this is a body suit, and I'm still just as sexy as you remember me." Remy winced as a small laugh forced its way from her lungs.

"And Wilson's last months were… hard." House's eyes wandered and he looked down. Remy saw something akin to anguish flood his eyes before they were sealed again. With most of her remaining strength, she reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. House looked up, staring at her for a moment, before smiling softly.

She smiled back, as much as she could, as more of her body began to shake. The lucidity was almost gone now; her body always went first, and her mind second. House noticed and pulled out an IV line, setting it up quickly.

"You won't feel any pain. You'll simply fall asleep," he said, priming the line and rubbing her vein with the alcohol wipe. Looking into her eyes, he paused. "Are you sure?"

Remy wished she could speak clearly for one moment. She wished she could sit for one more hour and just talk to him, this man who was willing to give her the greatest gift she could receive. She wished that, at the very least, she could muster the strength for a "Thank you", for not allowing her to die alone, and for keeping his promise. Her eyes filled with tears, even as the rest of her body quaked, and she nodded her head.

House nodded in response, sliding in the needle, and starting the IV. Looking into her eyes, he simply said "I know."

Her world suddenly stopped moving, as her body began to shut down completely. Light faded from her vision, and she felt herself sinking away. Fear grabbed her for only a moment before she felt House's hands holding on to hers tightly.

"Goodnight, Thirteen."

And in her mind, she smiled, because she was not alone.


End file.
